


played like his violin

by threadoflife



Series: sherlock ficlets [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Based on a Tumblr Post, Hand appreciation, John is Sherlock's instrument, M/M, PWP, Poetic Porn, violin porn, violinlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 23:00:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7380949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threadoflife/pseuds/threadoflife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock plays his violin, John can't help but stare at him. Specifically at his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	played like his violin

**Author's Note:**

> Thought I'd post this in a new series here because this is the second thing in a week I've now written, and I frankly can't remember the last time I put this many words down "on paper." Here's to hoping there'll be more to come!
> 
> Inspired by this gorgeous gif set of Sherlock playing his violin, and originally also posted here: http://wssh-watson.tumblr.com/post/146862440792/ladymacphisto-in-celebration-of-your-awesome
> 
> Dedicated to tumblr user ladymacphisto and her awesome anylock porn game she brought up this weekend (check it out here: ladymacphisto.tumblr.com), which actually inspired me to write again, which is just nothing short of awesome.

When Sherlock plays the violin, John will stare at him--specifically at Sherlock’s hands. He will stare at how he so expertly moves them over his instrument, full of purpose. Sherlock is such a clever man, knows so much, and John is devastated when he puts that knowledge into manual application, not just on the violin, but on John himself too. Staring at Sherlock’s hands, his fingers, John will be sitting on the edge of his seat on the inside while projecting a sense of calm, unfazed authority. He'd be trying hard to regulate his breathing and his heart rate, because obviously it’d go up. He's looking at Sherlock like this; of course his heart rate elevates.

It’s not the only thing that elevates. However still he’s holding himself, and however much he manages to keep his breathing in check, at some point he will betray himself through a particularly harsh swallowing, or definitely through his tented trousers. (Again: he’s looking at Sherlock like this.) He doesn‘t even have to close his eyes to pretend he’s somewhere else in order to enjoy the music. Sherlock’s playing transforms the very much awake world he’s consciously staring at right now into something different, otherworldly; Sherlock transforms the world into something warm and heavy with his playing, and the sight of his hand moving so expertly over the bow–so _competently_ –settles thickly in John’s throat, like honey, refuses to budge. The sight of his elegant fingers stroking the strings so diligently, so precisely, evokes a phantom sensation in John’s own thighs that feels a bit like sore muscles, reminding him of the fire tracing along his muscles after a good bit of physical exertion. 

Like the way Sherlock plays his violin–with both such staggering competence and terrifying tenderness–he’ll play John, later. In bed. 

Sherlock will do this:

he will echo his playing by tracing the tip of his tongue (like his fingers now) over the tendons of John’s throat, which will jut out as fine as strings but still so strong in utter anticipation of the touch. The sound Sherlock will produce will not be unlike the high sighs of his violin, because they will be high, but they will be much more vocal, much more needy. Because while Sherlock loves his violin, he never plays it out of need like he plays John.

Sherlock will echo his playing by manipulating John’s body like he manipulates his violin, moving his long, slender fingers (so beautiful, god, so beautiful) into the secret places of John that he knows will lead to the creation of a beautiful symphony between the movement of (a hand and a violin) a body and another body.

Sherlock will apply all his knowledge of the instrument that is John’s body to manual application, again–will slide into John slowly, slowly, then play him in an adagio; John will tilt his head back and close his eyes, and Sherlock will stare at him as raptly and awed as he will never stare at his violin. When John will touch him back–another thing the violin never does–Sherlock will be compelled to prematurely switch to andante, and when John will begin to breathe really heavily–to gasp–to groan–to moan–to say Sherlock’s name repeatedly–stuttering ("Sherlock–a-ah–Sher–Sher– _Sherlock_ –")–Sherlock will move to allegro, and their physical music will transport him elsewhere, give him the high of the cocaine, only so much better because it’s entrenched in this specific Johnness that cocaine could never have, and Sherlock will seek out his tongue and suck on it, and he will seek out the pit of his arm and lick at it, and he will seek out the strands of his hair and bury his face in it–he will close his eyes too, and he will _feel_ , and for once he will not be afraid because John is here, and John is everything–

and only seconds after he’s begun on presto, it will all fade to white.

And Sherlock will dissolve like his music does now for John when he stops playing and raises his eyes over the violin to John sitting erect and ruined on his chair staring at Sherlock--specifically at his hands.


End file.
